Here.

Here is here.

I sit in front of a warped television on a torn velvet couch, tortured with the accoutrements of what has been and shall forever be. The misery of the shamefully beautiful earth, and all I can do is watch as humanity crumbles to a fault.

The claws affixed to my wrist bones, weighty and connected with rusted iron screws, only serve as a reminder that I can do nothing to heal the suffering torment.

Perhaps you have read of my love.

Perhaps you understood.

In Heaven, I was known as Mephistopheles.

Now, fair humanity refuses to use my name...

I was watching as I am now, from the honeyed clouds above. I served my brethren well. But I watched my loves, my sweet adorations below, suffering in their own misery as they were plagued by death and love and pain and illness and hardship.

Oh, oh my dear Faust. He suffered the most of all.

I begged, pleaded with my Lord and Sovereign King to let me heal his torments. I left the Silver City with a heavy heart, intent on making Earth a mirror reflection of the Paradise above.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. And for such I became one of them, forever one of them, fated to spend the rest of my immortal days with the immortal suffering of a tortured soul, of my loves, of my true brethren, those who once praised my beauty, and now shrink away from me as I am Unholy in their eyes.

I only wanted to join them. To be with them. To love them.

My ever-gentle, tortured Faustus...

The good Doctor Faust sat, brooding over philosophical tomes. For many a year he had searched for happiness in books and philosophy and knowledge, but there was never enough. There was never an answer to his torment. In the end, in his futility, he turned to Alchemy for some sort of answer, searching the act of black magicks for some creative solution.

He fully criticizes the Bible as he contemplates his options. No RIGHTEOUS God would allow humanity such suffering through everyday practices, through the honorable pursuit of knowledge for the good of the people. The criticism of harmless relationships, of 'satan', when the so-called entity in question had only killed ten people throughout its ancient scripture, as compared to the ten thousand dead by God's own hand.

Though still, his wonderment was drawn by this idea that Man could be a God, that Man Himself could bend the universe around him to his own will through alchemic practices.

And so he researched for many a day, trying to find some sort of answer.


Their first meeting had Mephistopheles shy and sputtering. The object of his affection, that noble man who pursued truth in all-defiant logic and magic. Why had he decided to appear while Faust had tried a spell? Why did he try to give Faust that hope that the world belonged exclusively to him?

Mephistopheles had wished to give him the world. To fill this poor man's life to the brim with love and hope and warmth. He wished so dearly for this man to find happiness.

But this could not begin this way, no. The dark Spirit would not allow such ideas of Godlike abandon to sway Faust: the Lord Himself was enough to have to contend with, and this tragic dark angel would not allow Faust to become the same.

So Mephistopheles drew him into a slumber, and perhaps incurred the idea that this was a dream.

But with gentle fingertips resting on soft raven locks, he knew he would come back for Faust. Forsake the rest, this gentle soul was the one for which he would forfeit Heaven Itself.


Their second meeting was shy and timid on both ends this time, Mephistopheles lingering at the door with baited breath and a timid manner, waiting until the third time Faust implored him to enter before gathering the nerve to open the door, blaming it on mystic regulations so Faust would not find him quite so ridiculous.

Timidly in manner but bold in fashion, the dark spirit entered, adorned in fantastical reds and resplendent golds, tied to the usual resplendence of ballet heels, which often begged many questions of how the poor being was able to perform the usually perfunctory task of walking while frozen en pointe. Faust narrowed his eyes distrustfully at this garish display of sexual nature, but this was sexual in no means. Mephistopheles was an angel of the most painful of dances, pointe ballet, and was forced to remain en pointe to prove this- pointe. Yay for Pun Hell.

Faust was even more endearing in person, and though Mephistopheles would have given him every pleasure of the world freely, the Doctor demanded to know the price of this, vehemently demanding one. So the fallen angel offered him one.

"Sign this contract in your blood, and give me your soul when all is done."

How was Faust to know that this was the only way that those rejected from Heaven could marry? The man signed gladly, thinking it an equal trade.


Mephistopheles had timidly led him through the world, showing him all of the world's pleasures, of love, of passion, of joy.

However, ever since that moment when he was thrown from Heaven, every person could see the holy rejection clearly, confusing him constantly for the devil and a demon and a sinner, and they voiced their opinions as such. This did not help him one bit in wooing Faust for himself, as the Doctor had begun seeing him as a sick bastard from the moment they met, and as such was only growing more distant.

It was an unbalanced marriage, Faust was taking advantage of the dark Angel, of every pleasure the androgynous spirit offered him, while ignoring the feelings and thoughts of the new companion. To him, Mephistopheles was a servant, a slave he had purchased with his own soul.

He was not aware that he had already captured the soul of Mephistopheles, and that what he was doing made the trade ridiculously uneven.


Soon, it had all come to an end. The one moment of pure unbridled joy that Faust experienced, with another woman no doubt, instead of with the dark, jaded, scarred spirit that had given this opportunity to him, brought it all to a screeching halt.

This one moment had made Mephistopheles happy as well, so happy to see Faust finally getting some sort of enjoyment out of life. The tragic spirit had given all of itself, all of its freedom, everything that Mephistopheles could have possibly given of himself just for the sake of this one moment of joy for the Faust that had ensnared his very soul.

This made God very unhappy.

Those thrown from Heaven were not supposed to be happy.

So God did the only thing that He could think to do.

God took Faust to Heaven, and left Mephistopheles alone and abandoned.